


liminal

by astronomicallie



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - Limbo, Angst, Bittersweet, Death, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Canon Ages, and the frank discussion thereof, and the unlearning and relearning thereof
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:15:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26669575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astronomicallie/pseuds/astronomicallie
Summary: Had they been under other circumstances, maybe Goro would be able to take some sense of satisfaction from being able to shake Akira so thoroughly. Now, though, Goro can only feel like he has intruded on something sacred. Or dangerous. He looked at the mouth of the lion’s den and walked right into it.Death would be easier. Any moment, now.Leblanc is a café that serves the recently deceased. Its lone barista, Akira Kurusu, is a man of many secrets, but he has a way of easing the journey into the After for anyone who passes through Leblanc's door. That is, until his next patron is a man he thought long-dead, and he has to relearn the grieving process all over again as his carefully-cultivated space away from the troubles of his own life is cleaved in two.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 1
Kudos: 56





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> first off: heed the tags. someone's dead and they're not going to magically come back to life. take care of yourselves.
> 
> this is definitely a different tone than i'm used to (and a different ship), but i just had wisdom tooth surgery so it's a wild time for me anyway right now. this is heavily inspired by the game necrobarista in terms of death cafés and time limits. the plot is very different though, and this is a long way of saying if you dig the idea behind this fic, i highly recommend necrobarista because i love it and want more people to experience it.
> 
> not beta'd. hope you like it!

Of all the places where he could spend his last moments alive, Goro would like to think that he would have given up on Leblanc by now. Yet here he is, feet carrying him through a blurred impression of an alley to find this particular hole in the wall. He doesn’t have a clue about where he is until he passes the entrance to what must be the bathhouse, then the laundromat. The scenery became achingly familiar after that. Not just something that twisted his heart, either; this was a full-body discomfort, rolling out in waves through his limbs.

The lights of Leblanc ease the ache, but Goro still can’t exactly register where his body ends and the rest of the world begins. It feels like he’s been smeared into the scenery. What a picture that would be, huh? A splotch of the sickly beige of his coat against the warm tones Leblanc casts. He might as well ruin one last scene while he’s still here.

He doesn’t want to enter. The lights are on, and the sign on the door says ‘OPEN’, but Goro doesn’t want to walk into this personal hell. He would rather have his death come any moment now so that he can escape this hazy dreamscape and finally embrace the abyss.

But the longer he stands outside noting how the café’s appearance hasn’t changed a bit, the louder the ache inside Goro grows. Painful, hungry, gnawing at him like a starving dog trying to get to the marrow.

It’s such a cruel trick to play on himself. His mind could give him  _ anywhere _ in these final minutes of what must be an unconscious state, yet it takes him here. Even makes sure it’s still open, despite Leblanc’s hours never straying so late into the night.

Goro’s feet betray him and pull him towards the door. He pushes it open, the bell above ringing a bright, familiar tune as he pulls in the chilly night air. The ache eases once he crosses the threshold.

He still feels hazy, his head buzzing quietly. Maybe if he felt any more attached to himself, if he had the slightest bit of awareness, he wouldn’t have been so startled at the sound of crashing porcelain. His gaze snaps up to the direction of the sound. Fuck, even the  _ stools _ look the same—

And so does the barista, his eyes wide and mouth dropped open. Had they been under other circumstances, maybe Goro would be able to take some sense of satisfaction from being able to shake him so thoroughly. Now, though, Goro can only feel like he has intruded on something sacred. Or dangerous. He looked at the mouth of the lion’s den and walked right into it.

Death would be easier. Any moment, now.

“You,” Akira says. He looks like he’s seen a ghost.

That can’t be right. Goro can’t be a ghost in his own cognition, can he? If his mind wanted to concoct some sort of parting gift to him, it could have at least given him a bittersweet send-off. A warm welcome, a  _ honey, I’m home, _ and the smell of coffee and curry wrapping around him.

But he doesn’t deserve that, does he?

“Me,” Goro replies when he can finally get the word to form. It feels like pulling something from a slowly receding fog. He could turn around right now and leave, but his body won’t let him. His stupid heart clings to the aroma in the air and decides to make a home out of it. He has a feeling that if he steps outside, that ache would return. He’d only be able to withstand it for so long before wanting to claw his way out of his subconscious himself and finish whatever pitiful job took him out in the first place.

Akira continues staring.

“You might want to pick that up,” Goro says with a sneer. That’s better. He’ll feel more like himself soon enough. “Wouldn’t want someone to get hurt.”

No response.

Goro moves to sit at the polished counter. If he’s going to be such a disturbance, he might as well lean in. “I guess I shouldn’t have expected a warm welcome. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting a welcome at all. But here I am, and here you are…” He laughs. It’s a hollow, sardonic thing. “What a sad dream this is.”

“Dream?”

Ah, progress. Goro meets Akira’s slate-gray gaze. “Dream. I’m dying. I guess I have a few more moments before my brain activity stops completely and I breathe my last, so here I am.”

Akira goes pale. “You…?”

Goro rolls his eyes, propping his chin in his hand.  _ “Me. _ We’ve been over this, Kurusu. Keep up. Are you going to make me a drink or what? And for god’s sake, clean that mess—”

A hand whips out and clenches in his scarf, pulling him forward over the counter. He braces himself with his hands, breath catching.

“Don’t joke with me,” Akira says. His voice trembles, low and sharp as steel. “You can’t just walk in here after all this time and act like it’s  _ normal.” _

Goro regards him silently. 

“Not after what happened. After you  _ left.  _ I thought you died, and now you think you can waltz in— how did you find out, anyway?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Akira gives him a firm shake. “Leblanc. The After.  _ ‘I’m dying.’” _ Though his impression of Goro is hideous, he soldiers on. “Is this the finale to your disappearing act?  _ Years, _ Goro, and you show up and know everything like you’ve been  _ watching—” _

Years. Right. Goro notes that despite the surreal nature of this dream, Akira  _ does _ look older. His features have sharpened over time, yet (oh, Goro  _ wishes _ he didn’t notice this with such an odd ache in his chest) his hair still curls wildly around his head.

“Kurusu,” Goro tries again. “Let me go. I’d rather not die with you spitting at me.”

Akira releases him like he’s been burned. As Goro calmly sits back in his seat, Akira stands there seething. “Answer me,” he says, as if Goro’s any more likely to have a response if he’s not being immediately threatened. “How did you know?”

“About what? ‘The After?’ Is that what you call this night shift of yours?”

Akira glares at him. His hands clench over the counter’s edge. “Fine. How did you get here?”

“I walked.”

“No shit.”

“No, really. I fell unconscious, and then I was walking down that cluttered alley. Now I’m here.”

It takes Akira a minute to process that, his brows twitching as he goes over the facts in his head. Goro’s almost about to coo,  _ There you go, you’re almost there, _ before Akira murmurs, “Trains don’t run this late.” He sounds incredulous. Lost.

“Such are the ways of the mind, correct? Sometimes things don’t make sense, and you just… arrive.” He smiles. It feels like shattered glass.

Akira’s eyes snap back to him. The anger there has disappeared, replaced by wariness, cold and biting. Even after all the time apart, Goro’s stomach turns over at the look of fear in Akira’s eyes.

“Take your coat off,” Akira says.

“Oh,  _ now _ you’re playing the gracious host?”

“Take off the damn coat, Goro.”

“I don’t remember you being so familiar with my name,” Goro says conversationally, loosening his scarf and shrugging off his coat. “Is that a trick of my mind as well?”

Akira doesn’t respond and instead grabs his left wrist as soon as it’s free, tugging it across the counter to study it. Goro tries to jerk his arm back, but Akira holds firm, pushing Goro’s sleeve up. Then he goes rigid, sucking in a harsh breath through his teeth.

Goro follows his gaze to his arm. Across the veins crawling over his wrist is a band of numbers that almost looks like a tattoo. Yet this one moves. Or, counts down.

**5:43:17**

The seconds tick by. Goro frowns. “What the hell is this?”

Akira’s breath wavers on the way out. “You said you’re dying.”

“In a sense. And you’re here to torture me in my final moments.” Goro’s voice goes low, eyes narrowing at the countdown. “I hope this thing isn’t accurate. For my sake  _ and _ yours. There’s no way I’m surviving much longer than an hour.”

“You’ve got one thing right.” Akira sounds dejected, detached, like he has flipped a switch to turn his voice monotone. How familiar.

“By all means, give me the bad news first.”

“The time is accurate.”

“Fuck.”

Akira withdraws his hand carefully. “But there  _ isn’t _ any way you’re surviving until then. You’re already dead.”

* * *

**12:27AM**

Watching Goro Akechi react to the news of his own death is almost poetic. Akira can’t decide whether he wants to laugh or scream. He settles on staring silently as a myriad of emotions pass over Goro’s face. His wine red eyes scan Akira’s, voice settling into something neutral.

“You’re joking,” he says.

Classic denial. “I’m not.”

Goro’s hand clenches into a fist, the tendons of his wrist going taut. The countdown shifts with his skin. He pulls his hand back, rubbing over it with his thumb in a vicious back-and-forth. “Fucking perfect,” he spits. “And I’m still here? Is  _ this _ the hell I’ve made for myself?”

It’s a pretty quick jump to anger, but Akira doesn’t think he’d expect anything less from Goro. Thinking about it now, he can’t imagine him fading into the ‘bargaining’ stage. Maybe he’ll skip right to the depression. Or maybe he’ll be angry for the rest of his five-and-then-some hours left and burn himself out. “You’re not special,” he says, and— fuck, the words taste like ash. “Everyone gets some time before they pass on. Time to come to terms, to settle into themselves.  _ Et cetera _ .”

“Start talking.”

“I already am.”

Goro mutters another swear. His eyes don’t leave his wrist, which hasn’t reddened yet despite the vigorous attention.

Akira was expecting customers tonight, sure. He always does. But for a moment, he can’t find the way to begin explaining everything like he normally would. His usual speech gets washed away as he realizes how much time he has spent grieving a man who wasn’t dead.

_ Wasn’t. _ Because he’s definitely dead now, and each time Akira lingers on the fact that they’re reunited like  _ this _ , his blood begins to heat up.

“You’re in Leblanc,” he says quietly, looking at the familiar brown hair with a clear ache in his chest. He always tailors this introduction to whoever walks in to make sure people are comfortable. He knows— or,  _ knew—  _ Goro. He hates sugarcoating, he takes the bad news first, and he’d rather everything be put out in the open for him instead of beating around any bushes. “You’re dead. That countdown is how much time you have left until you have to pass on for good. You’re welcome to spend that time however you like— there’s not much you can do to actually damage anything.”

Goro eyes him, narrow and calculating.

“What?”

“How do you fit into all of this?”

That’s fun. Not everyone asks about the barista serving dead people. They usually just want a drink. “I run the café. I’m here to serve and guide people through their last hours.” There’s more to it than that, but Akira has never been one to show his full hand.

Goro knows this, which is why his brow furrows. “When did this happen?”

“Couple years ago.” Not too long after Goro first died, really.

“How?”

Akira shrugs.

“Kurusu.”

Akira clenches his fists once and releases them. He puts on a smile. “You know me. I have my connections.”

“To the dead.”

“Or those that try to govern the dead.”

That leaves Goro, former ace detective, stumped, his expression incredulous. Before Akira can convince himself it’s a victory, he changes tack, testing a different part of Akira’s story for any chinks in the armor. “You run the place. What about the Sakuras?”

“Sojiro still owns the place, but I’m in charge now. Futaba— oh,  _ fuck, _ Futaba—”

The bell over Leblanc’s door chimes once again, followed by another burst of the cold as the young woman in question barrels through. The hanging lights of Leblanc are warm, but even they can’t hold a candle to the fierce orange of her hair, dotted with snowflakes and snapping like a whip as she takes a stance and points.  _ “You.” _

“Me,” Goro says for the third time tonight, voice monotone. “How long am I going to play this game?”

Futaba ignores him, storming in with an awful lot of intimidation packed into her five-foot-nothing frame. She walks right past Goro, swinging around the corner of the bar to make her way to Akira’s side. She’s definitely not the socially-terrified girl she was the last time she and Goro met, but that doesn’t mean she won’t take advantage of Akira’s presence whenever she can for a ‘stat boost’.

_ My key item, _ she called him once. Right now, Akira can’t decide if the feeling’s mutual or if he wants to kick her right back out. (It wouldn’t even be that cruel; she lives less than five minutes away by foot.)

“I take it you still have the place bugged?” Goro asks, bored and resting his chin in his hand again.

Futaba rolls her eyes to the ceiling. “Obviously. Gee, some detective you are.”

“Now, hold on—”

But Futaba’s on a roll now, and her eyes land on the mess of porcelain at her and Akira’s feet next. “Clean that up,” she says in a stage whisper. “We don’t want to show any weakness.”

_ “We?”  _ Akira repeats.

She narrows her brown eyes at him, nose scrunching up. Akira has known her long enough to know a  _ Get with the program _ look when he sees one.

He goes to find the broom and dustpan.

Goro lets loose a mean little snort. “Of course you’ll listen to her.”

“Eyes on me, mister,” Futaba says, and Akira allows himself to smirk while his back is to them.

He’s in a weird headspace now, stuck between grief and his usual persona of the job. He hasn’t had a personal connection to a spirit in ages, and for  _ Goro _ to be the one to break that hiatus… Akira almost wants to throw in the towel here and now. Call up the Velvet Room and tell Igor  _ I can’t do this anymore. Find someone else. _

And he can hear Igor’s response in his reedy voice:  _ Is this not the very reason why you took the offer in the first place? _

When he jerks the broom out, it’s with more force than is ever necessary. It sends things toppling inside the closet in a harsh clatter that triggers a yelp from Futaba.

“Doing alright back there?” Goro asks, and Akira can  _ hear _ his smirk.

“I said  _ eyes on me,” _ Futaba fumes. She’s still going strong, but Akira knows her stamina only lasts so long before she needs to rest. Especially in a situation as tense as this one.

“You have my undivided attention.”

Then Futaba goes into a diatribe much like Akira’s— all  _ Where have you been _ and  _ What makes you think you can just walk in here, _ and Akira’s suddenly struck by the fact that she doesn’t know the  _ real _ kicker to all this yet. Of course she doesn’t. She probably raced over as soon as she heard Goro’s voice through her surveillance gear.

He doesn’t blame her. They’ve thought Goro was dead since high school, and she had to deal with some of the worst of Ren’s mourning. It’s just pitiful irony at this point that the only way he walks back into their lives is when he’s leaving his own.

Akira kneels and sweeps porcelain into a dustpan as she continues. Thankfully, the crash didn’t damage the rich, dark wood. Sojiro just got this replaced last year, and Akira doesn’t want to tell him he damaged it in the wake of an old flame. 

Above him, Goro says with all the subtlety of a brick, “You’re awfully disrespectful to a dead man.”

Akira winces as he hears Futaba’s inhale. He stands back up too quickly, but the head rush he gets as he disposes of the shards is the least of his worries. When he returns to Futaba’s side, she’s still staring at Goro with wide eyes and a pale face.

Goro smirks. Akira doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone so proud to be dead.

He puts a hand on Futaba’s shoulder slowly enough not to startle her. He can’t decide who he’s trying to comfort with the motion, but maybe it’s for the best that Futaba’s here at the beginning of what’s bound to be a long shift. “Alright. What’ll you have to drink?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You have five hours left, and you're sitting here drowning your sorrows."
> 
> "What sorrows? Maybe I just want to pass the time quicker."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. it's been a while! autumn blues got me fucked up, but i finally got this done and it's a lot longer than the first chapter. thanks if you're coming back to this! and thanks if you're just now finding this. just thanks, in general.
> 
> another little note: this is a no powers au. shit still went down, but nothing as fantastical as canon. 
> 
> content warning for alcohol and semi-exaggerated drunken behavior. take care of yourselves and enjoy!

**12:50AM**

Goro decides he wants whiskey. When he first takes a sip, his nose wrinkles and the corners of his mouth firm up.

Akira raises his eyebrows. “You could just have coffee, you know.”

“Let me indulge.” Goro’s eyes flash up to him, still narrow and wary. “Why does Leblanc have whiskey now, anyway?”

Akira shrugs. “I’m of age to serve it, and sometimes the dead need something a little stronger to ease the way.” He doesn’t have the ability to make any fancy cocktails, but he has the basics. If spirits want anything else, he has to direct them to The Crossroads, which is a hell of a trip if you don’t know how to move through a world meant for the living.

Most of them don’t. Most of them don’t have enough time to.

Akira glances at Goro’s wrist.

“I still don’t get it,” Futaba mumbles. She’s all the way at the other end of the bar, perched up in the seat like a bird. She’s been quiet since the Goro revelation, but Akira can easily see the cogs in her head working overtime to process things. “Why they drink, I mean. Can they even get drunk?”

Akira shrugs. “It’s all cognition. If you want to get drunk, you can  _ probably _ get drunk. The rules get blurred.”

“I want to get drunk,” Goro says helpfully. He goes on to do just that, drinking enough whiskey in a short enough amount of time that Akira would be worried if he wasn’t already dead.

Well, scratch that. He’s worried specifically  _ because _ he’s dead. Normally he isn’t so audible with his judgment, but he can’t help it when Goro catches him looking a little too closely and snaps, “What?”

“You have five hours left,” Akira says, “and you’re sitting here drowning your sorrows.”

Goro sneers, sliding his drink to Akira’s side of the counter. “What sorrows? Maybe I just want to pass the time quicker.”

Akira ignores the sting in his chest and fills the glass once more.

It doesn’t take long for it to hit, probably pushed along by Goro’s audible wish to drink the night away. His posture loosens, his words start stringing together, and he ends up with his chin propped in his hand again, his coat and scarf folded over the back of his chair. He stares openly at Futaba, who’s busy on her phone.

“Sakura,” he says.

Futaba keeps tapping.

“Genius,” Goro tries again, voice taking a mean turn.

Akira’s about to reprimand him, but Futaba lifts her gaze to meet Goro’s with a fire that tells him it’s probably best to stay out of whatever’s about to happen for now. “What do you want?”

“Why are you up this late?”

Futaba’s expression twists. “Huh?”

Goro checks his wrist, grunting and mumbling something under his breath when he realizes he only has his own countdown. He points to Akira. “Time.”

“1:25,” Akira replies.

Goro’s finger redirects to Futaba. “And  _ you’re _ still up. When’s your bedtime?”

“Bedtime?” Futaba repeats incredulously. “How old do you think I am?”

“17,” Goro responds with an astonishing amount of confidence.

“Try 19, idiot.”

Goro blinks, and then his hands fall to the counter. He stares at them in silence for longer than either of the other café residents are comfortable with before: “It’s been that long.”

He looks confused. His brow furrows, his lips thin, and the flush of alcohol stands out brightly on his skin.

Akira can’t take it.

“Alright,” he says. “What’ll you do now?”

“I’m exhausted.” Goro laughs. It’s humorless and bitter, and Akira realizes then that he’s a maudlin drunk. “I’m  _ dead, _ and all I can think about is how— how fucking tired I am.”

Akira discreetly pulls the empty glass back and sets it to be washed.

“Can I sleep?”

“If you’re up for losing that time, yeah.”

“I don’t give a shit about the time,” Goro bites out, and Akira wants to shake his shoulders and see if he can stir up some sense of urgency.

_ You’ve got less than five hours, and somehow it still feels like I’m the only one of the two of us that cares. _

The worst part is that this makes sense. Of course Goro Akechi would want to get his death over with. Rip it off like a bandage. Just like he apparently ripped himself out of Akira’s life and never bothered to come back or let Akira know he was  _ okay. _

Akira should hate him. For that, and for all of this. But all he can think about, watching Goro study the numbers counting down on his wrist, is how much he’s going to miss him all over again.

“You can sleep upstairs,” he murmurs.

Goro looks up at him. Even like this, there’s an attempt at analysis in his eyes. Always,  _ always _ waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“I can’t have you scaring any customers.”

Goro scoffs. “I’m not scary. Look at me. More pathetic than anything else.”

Futaba mutters something about bad vibes. Akira rounds the counter and stands patiently. “C’mon. I’ll lead you upstairs.”

“To your dingy attic room? You still live there?”

“I moved back after I graduated to work with Sojiro.”

“I didn’t know that,” Goro mumbles.

“You wouldn’t, would you?”

Goro shoots him a halfhearted glare and stands. He’s not stumbling drunk, but Akira isn’t about to let him go upstairs alone, given what— or  _ who— _ is up there. When Akira gets an arm around his waist to support him, Goro makes an unappreciative noise in the back of his throat. “Didn’t know you got this touchy, either.”

“Shut up and let me help you up the stairs.”

Goro’s laugh barks out of him at that. “Fucking savior complex.  _ That, _ I know.”

Akira’s jaw clenches, and he brings him up the stairs, passing an almost eerily silent Futaba. The familiar creaking is usually saved for the end of his shift, when he climbs up to bed. Any other spirit would just sleep in a booth or wherever else they rested their head. Goro’s an exception. He’s always been an exception.

Akira’s pretty certain he’d hate being gawked at while asleep, anyway.

“I don’t want to sleep on your shitty box bed.”

Akira rolls his eyes. “I got an actual one when I came back.”

“Why can’t you just get an apartment?”

“I like it here.”

“Sentimental idiot. Speaking of…” Goro looks around the room as they reach the top. It’s less like a storage space than when Akira first lived here, with a real bed in the corner by the window and his desk looking less like it’ll fall over at any minute. The sacks of café supplies still take up half a wall of shelving, but it feels lived in with all the collected trinkets decorating every surface and wall.

When Akira first came back, he realized it was fuller than his room back in his hometown. It had spirit, a story. That was when Sojiro climbed the stairs after him, patted him between the shoulder blades, and said,  _ It’s good to have you back, kid. _

Every night now, he feels a warm weight settle in his chest whenever he climbs up the stairs. This is home.

And Goro’s squinting at it like it’s something to be scrutinized as Akira flicks on the lights. “Do you still have that cat?” he asks. “How old was he when you picked him up off the streets?”

At the summoning, the black ball curled on Akira’s bed stirs. Intelligent blue eyes open to look at Goro, then Akira, then back at Goro.

“Oh,  _ great,” _ Morgana says.

“He’s talking,” Goro observes. “He never talked before. Is your cat a spirit medium, or am I  _ really _ drunk?” After a pause too quick for Akira to fill, he shakes his head. “No, spirit mediums are bullshit. I’m drunk.”

“You are,” Morgana says, standing to stretch. His tail flicks behind him as he narrows his eyes at Akira. “What’s he doing here?”

“First customer of the night,” Akira replies, stiff.

“So, he’s—”

“Kurusu, don’t talk  _ back _ to the cat. Don’t try to pull pranks on me. At least  _ try _ to respect the dead.”

Morgana doesn’t have eyebrows, but he sure does raise them anyway. “Okay, but what’s he doing  _ here?" _ he asks, tail flicking as if to gesture at the safe haven that is Leblanc’s attic.

“He’s even more demanding when I can understand what he’s saying,” Goro mutters gravely.

Akira doesn’t think Goro has any room to talk, but he moves on. “He needs to sleep.”

“And he’s doing it up here?”

Akira meets Morgana’s unflappable gaze with his own, and the silence rings loud and clear.

“So Mona talks,” Goro says, using a nickname Akira didn’t know he knew. “I’m dead, and I’m stuck with Akira Kurusu and his talking cat.” He laughs once, which just sounds vaguely menacing at this point.

“You’re not  _ stuck," _ Morgana replies helpfully.

Goro murmurs something unintelligible and Akira tries his best to look at Morgana pleadingly. “He’s taking the bed. Could you go keep an eye on Futaba and the café for me?”

Morgana perks up at that, but he still hesitates, eyes darting between the unlikely duo.

“Please?”

Morgana groans and hops off the bed. As he passes, he presses the entire length of his body against Akira’s leg. “Come back down when he’s settled. I’m not minding the place on my own.”

“When have I ever done that to you?” Akira asks, pushing some brevity into his voice. Morgana’s tail thwaps him before he bounds down the stairs, calling to Futaba.

Goro murmurs something else, and when Akira just keeps walking them to the bed, he shoulders out of his hold. “I said to let  _ go, _ Kurusu.” With a glare the color of spilled wine, he snaps, “Will you never listen to me?”

Akira instinctively raises his hands in some sort of surrender, but it’s hard to smother the indignant flame that sparks in his chest. “Not when I can barely understand a word you’re saying.”

“I’m not  _ that _ drunk,” Goro says, then grimaces. “Look, you don’t need to— to coddle me, or whatever. I don’t  _ want _ you to. So just…” He waves towards the stairs. “Leave me alone, go back to your death café, and I’ll pass on when it’s time.”

“You don’t know how to.”

“It can’t be too hard, can it?”

No, honestly. It’s painfully easy for spirits to pass through; it’s when they start to  _ think _ that it gets hard. Akira has held their hands while they’ve passed on, has felt the weight of their presences dissipate. He’s watched people go down like roaring flames, crackling until the very end when their existences are snuffed out and their voices ring in his ears. He’s met people who pass on without a single care, welcoming the levity.

He’s seen so many manners of death and so many different ways of coping with it that he can only say, after he has already taken too long to respond, “Depends on the person.”

Goro settles himself on Akira’s bed with a wince and works at untying his shoes. “It’s not like I’m going to fight the  _ reaper _ or— whatever happens. Can I sleep through it, or is there more ceremony to it all?”

“I’m not letting you  _ sleep through it, _ Goro—”

“Stop calling me that!”

Akira freezes.

“I never gave you permission to call me that, did I? You just took it for yourself, like we’re  _ friends." _

Something crumbles in Akira’s chest as he says, “Akechi.”

Goro glances at him, then scowls and works on his other shoe. “Don’t fucking look at me like that. Like you’re  _ hurt. _ You know how many years it’s been. What gives you any right to act familiar?”

“You’re the one who disappeared.”

“I did what was best for both of us.”

“And you died in Tokyo, right under my nose. Obviously you couldn’t stay  _ that _ far away.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Akira wants to grab the words as soon as he says them and stuff them back into his sudden desert of a mouth, but the damage is already done. Goro slowly looks up at him, a familiar fury in his eyes that spells nothing but trouble.

Akira tries not to anger  _ any _ person who passes through, but just like old times, Goro has a way of making him forget himself. If he apologized now, he wouldn’t mean it, so instead he shoves his hands in his pockets. Goro’s got his fists clenched in Akira’s blanket, like he’s about to tear it to shreds and then go for Akira himself.

The air crackles. It’s silent; Morgana and Futaba are probably waiting to hear a fight.

Akira’s so tired all of a sudden.

“Rest well,” he says, eyes falling to the ground between them. He turns, keeping a perfectly normal pace to the stairs, where he flicks the lights back off and descends. When he’s about halfway down, he hears a thud. Then another, followed by a muffled string of swears.

Futaba and Morgana stare at him when he appears. Akira can’t look at them long enough to find out whether it’s curiosity or pity in their eyes.

His eyes land on Goro’s coat and scarf instead. He snatches them up.

“Attic’s off limits,” he says. “No one’s allowed up there.”

“No one’s allowed up there anyway,” Morgana points out.

“Yeah, well.” Akira rounds the corner of the bar and stuffs the clothes in a nook beneath the counter. “Now we can say there’s a fucking banshee up there.”

“Akira,” Futaba says, and fuck, her voice is so  _ small _ when he passes her. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. I’ve dealt with worse.”

“Good,” Morgana says, “because I— hey,  _ hey hey HEY!" _

Akira’s too busy cornering himself in the kitchen, washing the single glass that’s been used tonight with a ferocity no cup should go through, to see whatever Futaba has done to make Morgana start yowling. His head buzzes and anxiety crawls under his skin like an entire colony of ants. His movements in the sink, jerky and uncoordinated from premature exhaustion, don’t bode well for the rest of his shift. Especially considering he’s not even halfway through.

Leave it to Goro to knock him so thoroughly off balance. Even in death. Well—  _ especially _ in death.

He’s died twice now, after all. But apparently that first time was just some sort of cosmic prank. The funnier part is Goro never  _ came back. _ He just went on living his life, so close within reach that Akira could have found him.

_ All we went through just didn’t mean that much to him, _ Akira supposes with a nasty scowl.

Futaba comes to fetch him back to his real work soon enough. Or maybe she’s worried. Her bright hair catches the corner of his eye as she inspects his work in scrubbing and rinsing and re-scrubbing the glass. “I think it’s done.”

Akira makes what he guesses is a grunt. Then he huffs because he shouldn’t be like that with Futaba when she’s done nothing wrong. Hell, she’s even checking in on him, and here he is just—

_ "Akira." _

He refocuses and finds her hand waving in front of his face. She’s leaning over the sink now, almost comical compared to how Akira’s similarly hunched over. The kitchen itself is hilariously tiny, so it’s a miracle the two of them fit here at all.

“Come back to Earth, dude. What’d he say?”

Akira sighs and sets the glass to dry.

“What did  _ you _ say?”

“Weren’t you eavesdropping?” he asks, and maybe the words were supposed to sound meaner. Something holds the venom back and leaves him in a monotone.

“Only heard Akechi yell.”

“You got the gist of it, then.”

“C’mon, you’ve dealt with difficult patrons before. Right?”

He meets her gaze and holds it until she shifts and backs off, arms folding around herself. She knows just as well as Akira that Goro’s not a typical customer.

“Do I need to go beat him up?”

“No assaulting the patrons.” It’s not like anyone could do any damage to a spirit, anyway. The corporeal form is there if their cognition demands it, but any bodily harm at this point is just a construct of their own mind.

“But he—” Futaba sighs. Huffs. Hums and taps her foot. Akira finally straightens his back and watches her work through her words. Sometimes, her mind goes too fast for her mouth to catch up and she pauses to process.

He waits patiently.

“I watched you,” she finally says, “when he died the first time. And I already know— already  _ see— _ that it’s happening all over again.” Her arms fold tighter, and her last words come out in a rush: “I’m here to help and if that means kicking someone’s ass I will because I care about you and—”

“Futaba.”

She stops and looks at him with that flare of irritation she gets whenever someone cuts her off.

“I’ll be okay. Really.”

“You did that the first time too,” she notes.

“Did what?”

“Lied.”

Akira’s shoulders drop like their strings have been cut. They’ve known each other for so long, he’d be surprised if he  _ could _ get such a big thing past Futaba. It still stings to have it so blatantly thrown in his face. “I  _ will _ be okay. He’s just— drunk. And difficult. He’ll pass tonight like everyone else, and that’ll be the end of it.”

“Should we call the others?”

“No one’s awake right now.”

“We’re like, eight hours ahead of Ann.”

“And what would she do?”

“I don’t know! Anything!”

Akira raises an eyebrow at Futaba, who groans and throws her hands up.

The bell to Leblanc rings. Morgana rounds the corner to join them and hisses,  _ "Akira." _

“Be right there!” he calls to whoever their guest is. Back to the charming barista, as simple as that. He’s been wearing masks ever since he was a teenager. When Futaba’s brow furrows, he gives her a small smile and nudges her shoulder as he passes.

“It’ll be fine,” he murmurs. “Don’t worry about me.” Old habits die hard.

She groans. As Akira takes his place behind the bar, he hears her say, “This is why I don’t play support.”

* * *

Goro wakes up disgustingly sober.

There isn’t even the telltale dry taste in his mouth or the pounding behind his eyes. Some cognition he has, huh? He refuses to open his eyes for a few minutes, mentally sifting through his memories of the night so far and grimacing. The only thing that brings him any sense of peace is the scent of woodsmoke and coffee washed over him. Then he realizes his nose is pressed into Akira Kurusu’s pillow, and he shoots up with a sharp inhale.

Right. The idiot had him sleep on  _ his _ bed, and Goro just— didn’t think to move to the futon, instead. Does Akira still have the futon—? When Goro’s eyes land on it, just where it has always been, he finds an odd sense of achievement. But that just means he  _ really _ didn’t have any reason to take the damn bed.

He must have been too preoccupied with tossing his shoes at the stairs, smothering himself with a pillow, and swearing.

He can’t even have a peaceful afterlife, can he?

“Perfect,” he hisses at the quiet attic. He buries his face in his hands and grits his teeth, trying to figure out what to do next. The feeling of his naked palms against his skin makes him want to peel every layer of himself away until he’s nothing but bones.

He looks at his wrist.

**3:18:29**

The seconds tick away, mocking him. Even though the only light in the attic right now is what little moonlight filters through the window, he can read the numbers on his wrist clearly. They glow, quiet and cold. It’s the most supernatural thing he has experienced tonight so far.

Or, wait. Wasn’t the cat talking, or was that a hallucination? Isn’t this  _ all _ one big hallucination?

God damn it.

There are few things he wants to do less than go back down those stairs right now, but his options are limited and there’s no way of getting out of here unless he wants to chance the window.

Goro catches himself staring at said window for a little too long, then shakes his head. He remembers the haze that swallowed him up in the alley— he doesn’t know where to find another space like Leblanc, so wandering outside would probably fog him up entirely until he’s left wandering alone while his final seconds tick down.

Then again, would that  _ really _ be worse than going downstairs and facing Akira after being thoroughly beaten in conversational chess? He’s starting to wonder.

(Dimly, he notes that conversations are not  _ chess, _ and you can’t win or lose them. The note goes unheeded.)

The low buzz of conversation wafts up the stairs along with the smell of coffee. With any luck, Akira’s too busy to look at Goro with those stupid fucking eyes of his, and Goro can just sit and scowl at the numbers on his wrist until it’s time to go. He deserves at least  _ one _ piece of solace before he’s gone, right? Would never talking to Akira again count as solace?

Peace of mind, maybe. But then he thinks of his recovery period after leaving the first time, how his life was just a more muted version of hell as he stayed at a familiar rehabilitation center and pulled all the strings he could to help Akira. Even then, as years passed, he still wondered if he did  _ enough. _ If he had come close to paying back even a fraction of the many, many debts he incurred from the universe. Akira Kurusu managed to haunt him even as Goro removed himself from the photo the only way he knew how: messily, with shaking hands lacking any scissors for a neat cut.

Not even peace of mind, then.

He stands and takes note of his person; his clothes are sleep-rumpled, sure, but who cares about having a freshly-ironed shirt when you’re dead? His shoes are right where he threw them, and— ah. His coat and scarf must still be downstairs, then. So even if he wanted to go outside, he’d freeze his ass off.

Wait. Do the dead still get cold? Was he cold when he came in?

Goro growls and retrieves his shoes, wrestling them on and padding down the stairs. He goes slowly, trying not to give himself away with the creaking wood.

His eyes immediately look for Akira around the corner, because they’re traitors. He’s nowhere to be found. There’s only one other patron in right now, sitting where Goro was. Sakura’s leaning against the bar with her chin propped in her hand, eyes half-lidded. She only seems roused by the occasional nudge from Morgana, who sits on the counter like some sort of small manager.

His coat’s nowhere to be seen. Goro chews on the inside of his cheek, and he’s about to step off the final step and figure out the best place to sit and pretend he’s already nonexistent, but the sound of voices catches his attention. They come through the wall to his left— the tiny bathroom, then.

A low, peaceful tone asks, “So you haven’t seen anything suspicious?”

Akira’s voice next. “Nope.” He pops the ‘p’. “Aside from a talking cat—”

“You’ve had Morgana for years now. He shouldn’t be suspicious anymore.”

“Aw, you always see through my lies.”

Akira almost sounds fond. Goro’s brow furrows.

“We’ll take any leads you have. The excess hours in this area have become an epidemic.”

“I know, I know.” Akira’s voice has already gone into that drawn-out, overplayed nonchalance he gets when he’s trying to wiggle out of something. Goro almost chides himself for recognizing it so well. “Really, Lavenza, I don’t know anything about it. Spirits come through, but it’s not like I’m going to ask where they—”

“So you’ve seen those in possession of more than six hours.”

_ People can have more than six? _

There’s a pause. Akira slipped up, apparently. “Yeah, but I’m not one to pry.”

“Make an exception. If this gets any more out of hand, we’ll have to have you start keeping track of who comes in and how much time they have left.”

“I think I do enough, don’t you think?”

Silence.

“Right, okay.” A doorknob turns, and Goro realizes he’s eavesdropping on a conversation happening in the bathroom beside the stairs, of all things. He plasters himself to the wall adjacent. This, at least, is familiar.

“Thanks for stopping by,” Akira says, his voice clearer now. “You, uh. You can stop sitting on the sink, now.”

“Ah.” There’s the tap of shoes hitting the tile. “I wondered why it was such an odd seat. You said our usual meeting place was occupied…?”

“Yeah, the attic’s haunted.”

Goro almost snorts, but his hand flies up to catch the hysterical sound before he gives himself away.

“… Alright. I shall take my leave then. I should warn you that my master may not be pleased with your lack of initiative regarding this situation.”

_ Master? _

“I’m here to ease the way for people, right? Keep them company until they pass on. Prying into their time— or lack thereof— would kind of ruin the point, right?”

Goro chances a glance around the corner. Akira’s back is to him, and emerging from the bathroom is a… child? She’s dressed in blue with blonde hair that falls neatly down her back, and there’s a  _ very _ large book tucked under her arm.

Lavenza turns, and Goro ducks back into cover. He can only guess she’s staring at Akira, as a lengthy pause follows.

Then Lavenza says, “Anyone is a suspect. You are not immune just because you’re in our employ.”

Goro knows a threat when he hears one.

“Did I hear ‘suspect’?” he says, voice pitching up into the softer, polite tone of years ago. He reveals himself, and Akira once again looks at him like he’s seen a ghost. Then his eyes narrow.

But before Akira can say anything, Lavenza addresses Goro. Her bright gold eyes pin him in place, unblinking as she asks, “Are you the one haunting the attic?”

“I suppose I am,” Goro replies. He tries for a smile.  _ Fuck, _ it’s been a while since he played this role: the TV darling slash prodigy detective. “Well— not anymore.”

“Is this a friend of yours?” Lavenza asks Akira. She only blinks once.

“Sort of,” Akira replies.

Goro feels his smile twitch.

“A shame,” Lavenza says. Her voice is light as a butterfly, yet each word carries a weight Goro can’t place. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“No, you aren’t.”

“I’m not sorry that he died, but I’m sorry that you lost him.”

_ He hasn’t lost me yet _ wages war with  _ I was never his to lose _ in Goro’s head. “I’m still here,” he says, and— oh. So falls away the voice of the detective prince, worn out from years of neglect. “And I was actually an investigator, once upon a time. I could help.” It’s not even a lie; though his detective prowess was rooted in celebrity status, it came in handy in later years.

Lavenza’s eyes narrow by the slightest margin.

Goro raises his wrist. “I’ve got—” he checks “— a little over three hours left, and I can’t think of anything else to do that’s more exciting than sitting in a café.”

“Do you know your way around the city?” Lavenza asks.

Smart kid. “No, but I don’t have a heart that bleeds as much as my  _ friend, _ here.” Goro tilts his head towards Akira with a smile that can’t help but be a little mean. “I’ll interrogate anyone with more than… six hours, you said?”

“Six.” Akira cuts in with a hand coming to play at his hair. It’s a movement so familiar Goro wants to slap said hand away. “We’ve got a problem with people winding up with more hours than they should be permitted. It’s… sort of throwing everything out of whack around here.”

He won’t look at Goro anymore. Still miffed from their argument, then.

“Three hours left,” Lavenza muses. “I’ll return before your time’s up to hear what you’ve found. If we miss each other, please record it and leave it with Akira.”

His last words, then. Fun. “It’d be my honor,” he says, lying through his teeth and sticking his hand out. “Miss…?”

“Call me Lavenza,” she says without bothering to take his hand. “Of the Velvet Room.”

“Lavenza, then. My name is Goro Akechi. I won’t disappoint you.”

When was the last time he said that?

“There’s not much you can do confined to one establishment, but I appreciate the optimism.”

Goro blinks.

“Now then.” Lavenza turns on her heel, her movements eerily even and rehearsed. “My master awaits me. Farewell.”

She leaves Leblanc, the bell over the door ringing with her departure. No one else pays attention to her, though there aren’t many people  _ to _ pay attention.

“You keep odd company,” Goro notes. When he looks back at Akira, he nearly takes a step back at the intensity he meets.

“What, so  _ now  _ you can’t stay out of my business?” Akira hisses, stalking forward.

_ Now _ Goro takes a step back. “Excuse me?”

“Eavesdropping, Akechi? Really? And you didn’t even bother to hide it.”

“I only heard—”

“Cut it. You knew about the situation. Who knows how long you were really listening in on us?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t hold private conferences in a bathroom,” Goro replies remarkably calmly, given the fact that Akira’s only got a few inches between their noses.

“Maybe  _ you _ shouldn’t spend your last hours drinking.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t allow any drunk patron in your attic.”

“Maybe you should realize you’re not just  _ any drunk patron." _

Goro wants to fist his hands in Akira’s stupid apron and hiss,  _ Why not? Why haven’t you forgotten about me? _ But he’s rooted to a standstill, fists clenching uselessly as the words make the floor fall out from under him.

“You’re an idiot,” he says instead. His voice crumbles to dust.

Someone clears their throat, and they both turn to regard Futaba. She looks half-asleep, bent at the waist with her chin propped on the counter like a miserable child.

“Sleepy,” she says simply. “Need SP boost.”

Goro barely understands what she means, but Akira’s already whisking behind the counter to address her softly. Goro can only follow behind at a safe distance. “Sorry, didn’t mean to keep you here so long.”

“Wanted to check on you.”

“I know, but you should go back home now. Sojiro’ll kill me if he realizes I kept you up so late.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Futaba stretches, then scratches Morgana behind the ears.

“And you,” Akira says, exasperated. “What have I said about being on the counter?”

“What’s so wrong with this?” Morgana whines. “I’m a valuable asset to this establishment!”

“And a health hazard.”

“I’m  _ perfectly _ healthy, and your main customers this time of night can’t get sick anymore even if I wasn’t.”

The spirit in Goro’s old spot clears their throat. Morgana’s ears flatten before he politely hops off the counter.

Akira gives Futaba an up-and-down. “Where’s your coat?”

Futaba stares down at her outfit that is, at best, warm pajama pants and a T-shirt. “Didn’t think to grab one. I had to come make sure everything was alright after I heard the situation.”

Ah, so Goro’s a  _ situation. _ Maybe he should jump in, defend himself—  _ I’m right here, you know. _ But as Akira chastises Futaba for not bundling up, Goro steadies himself against a chair and blinks hard. The feeling of intrusion, of seeing something he’s not supposed to and doesn’t have the  _ right _ to see, sweeps him off his feet.

Akira has Futaba wait at the end of the stairs while he goes and grabs her a spare jacket, and all Goro can think about is how much  _ closer _ they seem. Like real family, not just two kids pushed together by circumstance when Goro first met them. When he first met them, and all the others.

He wonders if Akira’s other friends still keep in touch, or if they’ve scattered to the winds. Or maybe it’s both, and the kinds of bonds they forged years ago aren’t so easily broken by distance.

A wave of unease and bitter envy makes him clench his hands over the back of the chair, and when he catches Morgana watching him, he summons up his best glare to get the cat to turn away.

It’s been years since he put much thought to what Akira and his friends have and Goro doesn’t. It’s been years since he has had it so blatantly shoved in his face, intentional or not, and rubbed there like he’s a child forced to look at his own mistakes. He doesn’t watch Futaba leave, only hears the bell ring one more time. His vision feels out of focus, and he only barely catches the dark shape of Akira in his apron taking his place back behind the counter as Goro stares, and stares, and  _ stares _ at the fine wood.

He doesn’t belong here. He has  _ never _ belonged here.

Distantly, he hears Akira address the spirit sitting in the spot that wasn’t and never could have been Goro’s. The two speak in low tones, and Goro can’t tell how much time passes or when they stop talking before a ceramic cup slides into view, the dark coffee within steaming pleasantly.

When he looks up at Akira, he finds his neck stiff. Damn cognition.

“To wake you up,” Akira murmurs, eyes on the cup. His voice isn’t as soft as it was with Futaba; hell, Goro can’t find a single thing about it that’s  _ soft. _ But he can appreciate the gesture as the olive branch it’s so obviously intended to be. Even if a dark, seething part of him wants to take that branch and snap it over his knee.

“Thank you,” he says, finally taking his hands off the back of the chair in a movement that feels like retracting claws. As he takes a seat, he hears his own voice like it’s far away. “Did you stash my coat away?”

“Thinking of going back outside?”

“That’s a recipe for disaster, isn’t it?”

“Not if you have a little help.”

“Do you want me to leave that badly?”

“I don’t want you to leave at all.”

Again, Akira manages to punch the air from his lungs and leave him with a dull, profound ache. He stays quiet.

Akira holds the bundle of Goro’s clothing over the counter. “But if you’re gonna be stubborn about it, I won’t fight you.”

Goro takes his coat back, digging into one of the pockets on reflex. “I’m not leaving,” he hears himself say. “Just looking for…” When he feels the familiar texture between his fingers, he sighs.

When he checks, his other pocket is empty.

“Something wrong?” Akira asks.

Goro pulls on the single glove he has, and things feel halfway alright. Halfway present. “I’m missing my right one.” He buries his bare hand into the bundle stuffed in his lap. “You wouldn’t happen to have seen it fall out, would you?”

Akira’s eyes train on the glove.“No, nothing was on the floor.”

Would his gloves being on his person be another product of his cognition? What would that say, then, if he only had one? That he’s halfway done? That he’ll always be incomplete?

“A shame,” Goro sighs, and slowly but surely, he’s coming back to himself. He feels the leather over his fingers, the warmth around the hand wrapped up in his scarf, and the bitter bloom of a burn when he finally lifts the coffee to his lips.

“You know,” Akira says, “I don’t have many spirits sleep in here. I’ve always wondered if it’s any different when you’re dead.”

In life, Goro’s sleep wasn’t the best. Sometimes it was pure shit. Stolen hours between fitful gasps into the darkness of his room with memories of a mother’s soft voice and a tyrant’s harsh orders and a boy’s silence as he stared down the barrel of Goro’s gun. The terrors got better over time, like all things do. Or maybe Goro just got used to them.

He remembers seeing the boy one night and wondering if anything he’d done ever since meant a single thing in the grand scheme of the universe, if  _ that _ was the thing that still plagued him.

Now, his eyes flash up to catch that same gunmetal grey. Akira’s grown, now. They both are; not so much teenagers walking tightropes as they are adults tangled up in frayed knots.

And Goro won’t even be here in three hours. Death finally caught up to him whereas Akira apparently made a deal with it years ago.  _ You always could charm anyone, Kurusu. _

Carefully, he takes another scalding sip of coffee. “I didn’t dream at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos are appreciated, as always. i was honestly shocked at the reception i got to the first chapter (in a good way!) so thank you very much for that.

**Author's Note:**

> writer's first shuake and akechi's already dead. love that for me!
> 
> comments and kudos are appreciated as always. thanks for stopping by and have a great day <3


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